open-mouthed and on your knees
by afastmachine
Summary: Hook gets his revenge, with horrifying consequences. Rated M for a reason; contains dark!Hook, rape/non-con, BDSM, emotional manipulation, and more.


**Contains: Dark!Hook, rape/non-con, BDSM, emotional manipulation, rough sex, and violence.**

**_Heed the warnings, you guys_****.** This is _not_ a happy fic and there is _not_ a happy ending.

I've been wanting write really dark and unforgiving Hook for a while, and after I mentioned it on tumblr, I had a few friends encourage me, and here we are. This is not romantic fluffy CS happy times(as though anyone expects that from me); this is probably the darkest and most explicitly fucked-up thing I've ever written, including my SPN fics. So, again, proceed with caution.

* * *

Emma has seen some horrifying crap in her life; experienced plenty too. But this, this might just be _the worst_.

It's her job to protect this town, to protect the people who live in it. To stop this kind of thing from happening.

But she can't. She's stuck here, behind her own damn bars, forced to watch, helpless, as Killian - no, _Hook_, vengeful, murderous, _unrecognizable_, Hook, summons Gold.

When he stabs him, it's like watching a dream unfold. There is no grand speech, no pontification, no crowning victory, just the dull sickening sound of a knife entering flesh and a body crumpling to the ground.

There's a pool of blood, ever-widening, underneath Gold's body, staining the tile.

Hook pulls the blade out of his chest the instant he stops moving, and the sucking squelch sounds horrible, echoing out in the quiet room. Emma has never liked watching people die, even people like him, and this is why. It's visceral and dark and _real_.

Their eyes lock, from across the room, and his face is expressionless, unreadable. She's not sure what she expected to find, but when she blinks, he's gone.

* * *

Two weeks later, he walks through the door of the station and oh-so-casually leans against her desk. He doesn't look any different, but she should have noticed, should have recognized the magic thrumming in the air.

But she's stupid, so stupid, confused and yet still happy to see him, desperate to pretend that he didn't just replace one evil with another.

He smiles at her and for a second, she hopes. Maybe absolute power doesn't corrupt absolutely. Maybe he's still the man she saw in Neverland, the man she let into her bed, even if for just one night.

"What happened to you?" she asks, and that is her first mistake. He ignores the question, leans forward and rests his hand on her knee. She goes to push it off, but finds she can't lift her hand. In fact, she realizes with dawning horror, she can't move _anything_. He rubs at her thigh, a rather pitiful attempt at something soothing, and tilts his head forward, lips brushing against the shell of her ear.

"Your son is the most important thing in your world, isn't he, Swan?"

Terror spirals through her, jolting her senses. She can feel her breathing pick up, chest heaving in air, but he does something, and in between blinks it feels like there's a vice around her, pressing the air out of her lungs.

His hand moves higher up her leg, the grip tightening.

"Y-yes," she stutters out, and the pressure releases. She still can't move her arms or legs though, can't actually shudder when he pointedly rubs at the inside of her thigh, his hand prying her legs apart even as she can't move them herself.

He hums against her skin and presses an open-mouthed kiss to the skin under her ear. Her eyes flutter shut, for a moment forgetting who he is, what he's doing right now, her mind drifts to that one night, when she had been alone and sad and desperate and he had been kind and gentle and he'd kissed her like he wanted to give her the world.

Suddenly he's nipping her shoulder, and he must have released her body at some point, because she jolts, squirming away from him, back into her chair. He pulls away, his eyes running over her, appraising. His gaze is heated, and there's no mistaking that look. But she asks anyway.

"What do you want, Hook?" Her voice is hard, because now she's pissed. She's angry and upset, irrationally betrayed.

His eyes lock with hers, and he utters the one word she really had been desperately hoping to avoid. "You."

And then he surges forward, kissing her, nipping at her lips, demanding entrance. She lets him, opens her mouth and fights. She bites down hard on his lip, smiling to herself when the taste of coppery blood fills her mouth. He jolts away from her, and for a moment he looks incredulous. But his face hardens fast enough, the blood dripping down his lip vanishing as though it was never there.

Right. Fucking magic. His grip on her thigh tightens painfully, and he brings his hook up to her collarbone. She wants to punch him, to throw him off of her, but she can't move again. He easily slides the point inside her blouse and tugs, tearing a wide gash in the front of it, enough to expose her bra and the dip of her necklace to his wandering gaze.

God, she wants to beat the shit out of him.

"Make no mistake, my dear," he whispers in her ear, his thumb brushing at the juncture of her hip, teasingly close to her core, the rest of his fingers gripping her thigh tightly. "I want to _use_ you." The words drip with intent, and Emma closes her eyes, has to grind her teeth and bear through it. She may not be able to actually move her arms, but she can still make a fist and imagine putting it through his pretty face.

As though he can read her mind, he chuckles and pulls away.

"Please understand me, Emma, because I don't plan on repeating myself." He lifts his hook to under her chin, tilts her head up towards him, and against her will, she opens her eyes. "I have _power_. I could rip you apart if I wanted. If I wasn't _careful_." He licks his lips and leans in closer, keeps moving towards her until they're breathing the same air. "I have no qualms; I _will_ have you, even if I have to use your son to get that through your head."

The words hang in the air between them like a ghost. She can see it in his eyes; he's not lying. It's not an empty threat.

It's terrifying.

"Just so we're clear, darling." He smirks at her and it nearly breaks her heart, because it's so _wrong_.

"I don't understand. What _happened_ to you, Hook?" She spits out, using the only offense she has available; her words. The smirk vanishes from his face and his hook moves down her neck, the tip trailing across her collarbone.

"I discovered what it feels like to be in control, Emma." His thumb is back to rubbing circles against her leg, inching forward with every movement, until he's circling her right there between her legs, just enough pressure against her jeans to let her know he's there. "Once upon a time, I think maybe you might have saved me. But then we _fucked_, and you wanted nothing to do with me." She wants to protest; she didn't want nothing to do with him, she just needed space and time, but it dies in her throat when she's reminded of the press of his hook against the lace of her bra. "Once we got your boy back, there was nothing _left_ except revenge. You made it abundantly clear you weren't interested in anything else."

His eyes darken and his hand freezes on her. "I guess maybe you somehow got thrown in there with everything else. You're _mesmerizing_, love," he murmurs, and his gaze drops from her eyes, follows his hook as he dips it between her breasts, tugging at the material of her bra. It doesn't give way easily, but he's plenty determined. He tugs again and the fabric at the center tears away with a snap, and he nudges one of the cups aside, running his hook across the top of her breast.

For once, she's appreciative that she can't move, because the cold steel against her skin is every shade of wrong, but it still feels _good_, her body instinctively reacting to it. He starts moving his thumb again, ever-shrinking circles against her core, right over where it will do the most damage. Her eyes flutter shut, though, and he notices, because he chuckles, warm air blowing across her cheek.

That snaps her out of it, and she opens her eyes, blinking rapidly to try and clear her vision.

"Well, my dear, are we going to have an arrangement? Or do we need to go pay a visit to the school?"

The reminder of his threat feels like a bucket of ice dumped over her.

"No," she whispers, trying to shut out the sensations he's feeding her, pushing all the buttons she'd let him learn.

"Good," he murmurs. Suddenly his wandering hook is gone, as is his hand. And Emma can move again, the spell holding her frozen in place disappearing along with his body. "Get up."

Slowly, she eases herself out of the chair. He's leaning against her desk, watching her appraisingly, his eyes tracing her skin under her ripped shirt and bra. His fingers toy with the buttons on his vest, slowly popping them loose.

"Strip."

She gapes for a second, but it's enough time for him to jump on her hesitation. "Strip, Emma, or I will do it for you," his eyes drift down her legs, "and I can't promise I won't scratch you trying you get you out of those terrible pants."

That's enough to spur her into action, and she shrugs out of the ruined blouse and bra. She bends over and yanks off her boots, undoing her jeans and stripping them off before she dares to look at him again.

She shivers; the way his gaze travels up her body, hanging up on her legs, it's prickling the back of her neck and she hates it.

"You should wear more skirts, Emma. It's a shame to keep those legs covered up." He has the audacity to freakin' _wink_ at her.

"It's too cold for skirts," she snaps at him, crossing her arms over her chest, uncomfortable with the way his gaze is lingering on her body. It's not like he hasn't seen her naked before, it's like he wasn't _just_ touching her, but this is different. This is something she quite decidedly has no say in.

In one swift step, he's on her, pulling her arms away from her chest and down to her sides. He leans in, pressing himself against her. "You'll get used to it, I imagine," he growls as he brings his arm up behind her, pulling her flush against his body. He crowds her back against the desk behind hers, until she's trapped between the firm edge of the desk and him.

He brings his hand up to her shoulder, brushes a lock of hair away before caressing her cheek. It's oddly intimate, _caring_, for what he's playing at. He leans in, nosing at the column of her neck, his hand falling to her hip. His fingers grip her thigh, pulling it up and over his hip, bringing them closer.

She whimpers when she feels him there, bulge in his pants pressing right against her core, her underwear and his pants the only thing standing between them, and he grins against her skin. He pats her thigh, and murmurs, "keep that there, love," before pulling his hand away.

Just to spite him, she tries to lower it, but she can't, muscles firmly locked into place as though he was still holding her. He grinds against her, pressing every inch of them together, and she hisses as her bare chest rubs against the fabric of his shirt. She brings her hands up to his shoulders, gripping the leather of his vest, trying to push him away. He leans back, but keeps their lower halves joined together. Quickly, he bats her hands away and finishes shrugging out of his vest. Emma tries to look away, to focus on a spot over his shoulder as he strips off the last layer, his shirt disappearing into the growing pile of their clothes on the floor.

"Look at me." His voice hardens; the statement is not a request, it's a demand. Reluctantly, she shifts her gaze back to his face, carefully avoiding the bare skin between them. He hums, noticing her detachment. "Remember that time you walked in on me changing?" He leans back in, plastering himself against her. "Remember how you couldn't look away?" His words ghost across her ear, and it has the desired effect. She's thinking about it, now, the way it had been really fucking hard to tear her eyes away from him, the way he'd let her look, smirk playing at the edge of his lips. The way she'd very pointedly avoided following the trail of dark hair that disappeared into the low cut of his trousers.

"Remember when we _fucked_?"

The way he'd laughed at her after, when they had finally slept together, told her she was always welcome to look.

She lets out an involuntary shudder, and the feel of him, pressing so close against her, so tight, snaps her out of the memory. He chuckles against the side of her neck, mouth moving lower to suck at a spot. His hook snakes around her back, pulling her tighter against him, and she scrabbles at his chest, trying to push him off, but to no avail. He's immovable, unstoppable.

The skin under his lips is prickling painfully, and she knows he's _marking_ her. A part of her wants to cry, wants to go limp and start sobbing, but that would mean she's letting him _win_, that he has complete control over her.

But then he pulls away, taking a step back. The loss of body heat is startling, and for a moment it leaves her dazed. Finally free of his control, her leg drops, and she wobbles on her feet for a moment, clutching the desk behind her for stability. She doesn't realize why he stepped away until she manages to force her focus outwards, and she looks back up at him.

He's stepped out of his trousers, and he's hoisted himself up on her desk, legs dangling off the edge. She tries desperately to not let her eyes travel downwards, but it's a losing battle. His cock is hard, bobbing against his stomach. He's slowly jacking it, lazily watching her as she comes back to herself. His eyes are lidded and dark with lust. He's gonna fuck her, and there's not a damned thing she can do about it, not a single thing she can say to alter this trajectory.

It freezes the blood in her veins to ice. She's a fighter, but she doesn't see a way to fight this, to fight him. Not without people getting hurt. Other people, people she _cares_ about. She doesn't know exactly what he can do, what he's capable of, but he was plenty dangerous before, and now, with this power, he's a million times more so. Her mind flashes to all the people in Storybrooke; her responsibility, to keep everyone safe. On top of that, she's the _savior_, an unwelcome burden but one that she feels intensely.

"I'd rather you didn't do that," he says, and it draws her attention again. She realizes her mind is wandering, trying to dissociate. "When you're with me, I want all your attention." Fuck. Well, there's that method of escape out, too.

"What do you _want_," she huffs, tired of his two-steps-forward-one-step-back dance. The faster she can get this over, the better.

He seems to mull it over, his eyes skittering over her body again. She has to resist the urge to try to cover herself again; it's not like he won't just stop her anyway. The worst part is that she can feel her skin heating up under his gaze, a flush rising on her chest and cheeks.

"I think, right now, I want you in my lap," he finally murmurs. "I want to see you squirm, darling." She forces herself to swallow the lump in her throat. It could be worse.

"Okay," she acquiesces, and forces her legs to move, one foot in front of the other, ignoring the way they wobble with uncertainty. She's Emma fucking Swan. She has handled everything her life has thrown at her until this point. She can handle this too.

When she's stood in front of him, between his legs, he nudges at her side and taps at her leg, urging her to lift it. There's no real graceful way to scramble up onto the desk, but she manages it without hurting herself. She ends up on her knees, braced on either side of his hips. She hovers over him for a second, uncertain of what he wants next, but he moves then, his hook curling around the waistband of her panties before he tears them away, the last bit of protection she had vanishing as he tosses them aside, nothing but rags now.

His hand comes up between them, rubbing at her clit, fingers sliding between her folds, and he has to bite her lip to keep from reacting, though she can't control the way her thighs shudder against his. Her hands do come up to his shoulders, though, and she digs her fingers in, willing her nails to break skin.

"Don't be like that, darling. We both know you're not anywhere near ready for me," he murmurs against her, tilting his forehead towards her chest. She speaks without thinking, grinds the words out.

"No shit, sherlock. Rape isn't a turn-on."

His fingers still instantly and she curses herself internally, a tiny part of her keening at the loss. Fuck, why can't she _think_ before she says things. He pulls his head away, looks at her hard, eyes dark and calculating, wheels turning internally.

"If you want _rape_, Emma, I can give you _rape_," he growls, tapping his hook pointedly against her thigh. The not-so-veiled threat hangs in the air, and she narrows her eyes at him. The implication is that he would hurt _her_, and she can handle that. She can afford to stand her ground on this one thing. How much worse could it be?

"Don't bullshit me, Hook. You and I both know that's _exactly_ what this is." Her voice is challenging, more than she had intended. She may not be able to _fight_, but she can do this.

To her surprise, he seems more bemused than anything.

"If you think you're going to convince me to stop with _that_ defense, you're wrong." He smirks, but it has a suddenly hollow appearance to it. "Pirate, remember? We have notorious reputations _for a reason_." She watches him for a long moment, trying to pull apart the _why_, because it doesn't seem possible that this is the same man who _came back_ for them all. His response doesn't quite echo as true, and maybe that's why she says what she says next.

"Maybe I just thought you were better than that," she finally says, voice low.

His face hardens, the previous moment of vulnerability gone. "You thought wrong. I'm a pirate and a villain and I _take_ what I want," he grinds out, and then abruptly picks up where he left off, thumb circling her clit while he pumps two fingers in and out of her.

Despite her better judgement, she keeps her eyes on him, holds his gaze even as her fingers bite into his skin and her legs start to tremble and she wants to roll her eyes back into her head.

He looks away first, eyes flickering down across her body. And no matter what else happens, Emma is counting that as a victory. Even though, against her will, she can feel her belly tightening at his ministrations, heat spiraling away. He had been a good lay, talented enough, and he's teasing her with it now, probably punishment for daring to say anything.

He's still steadfastly not looking at her, so she lets her eyes slide shut. She can't do anything about what he's doing, about _anything_, so she there's no use fighting it. Her breath is coming in short pants, now, and her hips are stuttering against his hand.

Gradually, he slows, finally stopping and withdrawing his hand, apparently satisfied with her reaction. She sucks in a breath, knowing what comes next.

But nothing _does_ come; he's still under her, and she snaps her eyes open.

He seems startled when she meets his gaze, and though he covers it quickly, she catches a glimpse of something else. Regret, maybe?

"Are you ready?"

_Motherfucker_. He doesn't get to _do_ that. She screws her eyes shut again. He doesn't get to seek absolution from her. It's _never_ going to happen.

"No," she grits out, and his head tips forward against her chest. He just breathes for a moment, hot air puffing out against her breasts.

And then he brings his hook up around her back, pushing her forward and up against him. She can feel his hand between them, lining himself up. The tip of his cock slips inside and she grits her teeth, a grimace forming on her lips. Thankfully, he doesn't say anything about it, just moves his hand to her hip and starts pressing her down on him.

Her hand on his shoulder slips, and her nails scrape down his arm. She can feel blood rising under her fingertips, and it's feels like being grounded, opposite to the way he's stretching her open, slowly and inexorably. Her fingers come to a stop when she reaches his elbow, and she grips his arm instead.

She doesn't realize she's not breathing until _finally_ she's flush against his hips and she sucks in a deep breath, everything _burning_. He doesn't move, lets her heave and catch her breath. That changes all too soon.

"_Move_,Emma," he says, fingers digging into her hip painfully. She opens her eyes reluctantly. She's going to have bruises tomorrow, but that is the least of her concerns right now. The moment from earlier is over, lust and darkness clouding whatever had been in his eyes before. His arm idly stretches out, hook nudging at the framed picture she keeps on her desk of her family where it sits next to her knee.

Her stomach roils and she squeezes her eyes shut at the sensation. For now, she'll give him what he wants. She'll figure him out, she'll find a way to _fix_ this. She'll let him do this, and then she will collect her dignity and she will figure out a plan.

So she plants her hand on his shoulder and bites her lip, lifting her hips off of him slowly. She barely rises a couple inches before his grip slams her back down again. It forces a startled breath out of her. He smirks underneath her, but it's cold, sharp-edged and _terrifying_.

He's not teasing her anymore. He's demanding that she fuck herself onto him, he's proving a point for her.

Shame bubbles up in her chest, that she's letting him do this, that she willingly slid herself onto his lap, that even now, she could freeze up, lock her thighs down against him and _fight_, but she's not. She could run away, try to find her own magic to use against him. But she's not.

Her heart stutters and stops for a second at the sound of shattering glass, and she snaps her eyes open, completely unaware that she had even closed them in the first place.

The picture of her parents and Henry is gone; she can just barely see the edge of the frame on the floor when she twists around, the bright sparkle of broken glass catching her attention. Her eyes flutter back to Hook, and he's watching her carefully, warningly. His hook is dancing on her thigh, the sharp point of it pressing just hard enough to let her know that it's there as he traces patterns against her skin.

She grits her teeth and lifts her hips again, trying to shut out the way her body is screaming at her, the raw sensations scraping along her nerves.

When he comes inside her, it's the worst feeling she can possibly imagine.

* * *

"I _hate you_," she hisses against his lips, feels his hook dig into her side painfully in retaliation. It only serves to remind her of who - _what_ - he's become. He kept the hook, he'd told her, because it was a reminder. He'd neglected to tell her of what exactly, though, busy shoving the skirt he'd insisted she wear up her thighs.

"Lucky for you, I don't _need_ your love, darling," he murmurs into the skin of her neck, firmly slamming his hips against her, driving himself further into her. The movement makes her toes curl and slides her further up the bed, which she appreciates. The tension on her shoulders eases, though the metal against her wrists will never _not_ be uncomfortable. Chained to her own bed with her own handcuffs. Fucking ironic.

He's a kinky bastard like that. Or he just knows her, knows well enough that he may have managed to force her into his bed, but he will never be able to force her affection, that every finger she lays on him carries nothing but anger and hatred and violence.

It's probably the latter. She's tried to punch him enough times for him to catch onto the fact that she's not _thrilled_ with their arrangement. But she knows better than to truly resist; the line between fighting enough to appease him, to amuse the part of him that claims to love her _spirit_, and a genuine struggle too clearly defined in her mind. It's been drilled into her, his words bouncing around in her skull every time she curls her hair and steps into those tiny little dresses, garter belts and stockings and no underwear because that's how _he_ likes it on their little "dates". She may hate him, but he sees right through her, has known her weakness since day one.

And with his new absolute power, what few morals he had, his _code_, has been thrown to the wind. He is not above using what she holds dearest, he has made it _abundantly_ clear.

"Emma," he growls, yanking her hips down to meet him. Her arms wrench painfully and she cries out, but that's her own fault for losing track. "Focus, darling." He smirks, leaning down between them to mouth at the curve of her breast, leaving a sloppy wet trail behind as he moves towards her nipple. She stiffens, knows what is coming next.

He likes her focus, her _undivided attention_. When he doesn't get it...well, he gets cranky.

His mouth latches onto her nipple, sucking and nipping at it, pulling at it with his teeth. She arcs up off the bed, trying to follow him, to ease the sharp pain, but he pulls off, teeth sliding together as he retreats. Mission accomplished, he rubs at her nipple with his thumb, and goddamn her traitorous body, but she shivers into his touch. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the puff of purple magic. It's like he has a sex shop in his head, and he never fails to utilize the _wonderful_ knowledge he's picked up in their world. It seems so absurd that he does this; pulls his shit out of thin air just to keep her guessing as to what's coming next.

This requires no guessing, however, especially as she feels the teeth of the clip clamp down on her hard nipple. She can't suppress the whimper as he tightens it down, knows exactly what to do to have _this_ effect on her. He tugs on the chain lightly, and as much as she wants to bite her tongue and pretend it isn't there, she moans and squirms under him, a nice show of trying to get away. The whole point is to make her feel, she learned a long time ago. If he thinks she isn't feeling, isn't _involved_, he only pushes harder, finds new ways to play her body against her.

After the time he'd strapped her into that god-forsaken harness, stuffed painfully full, twirling the fucking remote in his hand, she'd learned that there was pretty much nothing he wasn't willing to do. He'd wanted her to beg him to fuck her, and so he figured out how to get what he wanted, twisting the dial as he watched her closely, sweat shining on her skin as she squirmed and moaned and sobbed, alternatively railing against him and begging him to stop, to take it out and fuck her.

He didn't stop until he felt she was sufficiently _genuine_ in her pleading, and then he'd fucked her and she'd hated him because she could barely crawl out of bed the next day. That night had been rough, in more than one way.

Since then, she's discovered that it's simpler to give in, to let him tweak her other nipple into hardness before he repeats the process, the chain connecting the two clamps falling into the valley between her breasts. It's easier to resist only enough to remind him who she is.

Like right now. He leans forward, purposefully dragging his chest against hers, eliciting a moan from her. He's angling for her mouth, so she turns her head to the side, his lips colliding with the edge of her jaw.

When he chuckles, it reverberates against her skin. There's nothing amused about it, though.

He's on edge tonight, and it's suddenly painfully obvious that she may have toed the line a little too far when he grabs her jaw, twisting her face back to his.

"Tread carefully, darling. Remember who truly holds the power here." He rotates his hips against her to drive his point home, thrusting shallowly. His eyes are dark, and he is truly terrifying. If he wanted, he could snap her in half. He won't, because then he wouldn't have her anymore, and they both know it, but he can still hurt her, can make her _wish_ he would go that far.

Her heart thuds painfully in her chest at the thought of Henry, spending the night with her parents, as he always does during Hook's visits.

She takes a deep breath, tries to ignore the burning in her chest from the clamps. "Okay," she whispers, trying to deflate her resistance the best the can, her lips pressed into a firm line

He grins, like a shark, and leans forward, lightly brushing his lips against hers. His hook comes up between them in a flash, yanking at the chain, and she cries out, but the sound is muffled as he takes advantage of her open mouth and fucks into it with his tongue, taking every inch as she surrenders to him. He releases her jaw, satisfied that she's not going to try to deny him now, and lowers his hand to her hip, his fingers slotting between the bruises already there, some fresh, some fading.

When he presses into them, she groans and shudders away, and he sucks the sound up, revels in it.

That's another thing about this new Hook. He likes leaving his mark. She thinks he gets a sick sense of pleasure from counting them, showing the world that Emma Swan is his, keep your hands to yourself. There are bruises and bite-marks everywhere on her body; just from tonight she knows there will be dark circles across her neck, upper chest and breasts, ones she will try to hide with a sweater, but they'll never be _truly_ hidden. And if he decides to stop by the sheriff's office, he will want to see, to know that they're visible. He likes to remind her that, for all intents and purposes, she belongs to him.

"Gods, Emma," he groans, moving again. His thrusts are long and shallow; he's never too eager, willing to have just a quick fuck and be done with her. That would be too easy. "Do you know how you look? Spread open for me, so warm and tight."

She fights the urge to snap something snarky back at him. That would be the stupidest thing to do at this point. She used to, snarky remarks and never-ending commentary, in the beginning. It might have made him move faster, more violent, but there would have been punishment later. Regardless, though, she can feel the redness rising across her chest, her cheeks. He likes that, too, making her blush with embarrassment. He tells her she looks beautiful even when she knows she's not, red marks and yellowed bruises covering her skin, hair a tangled mess, wrists rubbed raw. It would be almost sweet, if not for the way he always says it, pulling her hips down against hers, stretching every muscle in her arms and shoulders, swallowing her whimpers and moans.

Thankfully, he doesn't go there tonight. Instead, he mutters filth about the spread of her legs and the way her breasts bounce, the silver chain linking them sliding against her skin with every movement.

It's humiliating, but he doesn't care, just bends down and noses a the chain, picking it up with his teeth. He drags it up her chest, stubble scraping against her skin, until it's tight, pulling her breasts up as she arcs up to escape the pull. The pain is sharp and searing, but she does her best to hold in her cries, instead biting her lip. It's sore from where she bit through it last week, trying so hard to be quiet because he'd come over while Henry was there, sleeping peacefully in his room. He'd ignored her protests, told her to see it as a challenge as he slipped his fingers inside her panties.

He growls, drawing her attention back to him, away from the past. It isn't until she feels his fingers skating against her thigh that she realizes what he's doing, and by then he's already circling her clit and she's arching up against him, squirming beneath him. The movement pulls at the chain in his mouth, and he fucking _grins_ when she yelps at the sharp transition from pleasure to pain.

He drops the chain from his mouth and leans down to press a line of kisses against her chest, his fingers still slowly circling against her as he presses into her. He's picked up the pace, but it's still lazy and unhurried. She's heaving, unable to suck enough air in to deal with the assault on her senses, the dizzying transition from pain to pleasure and back again.

"Breathe, love. Wouldn't want you to pass out on me." He pauses, his hand coming back up to her hip when he buries himself in her and waits. Part of her doesn't want to breathe, wants to just hyperventilate until she doesn't have to deal with him anymore, but that too would be a bad idea. He's managed to close off every avenue of escape, and they both know it. So she does her best to breath in and out, in through her nose, out through her mouth, to lower her heartrate. It's a trick she picked up a long time ago; it was impossible to chase a runner without proper knowing how to breathe.

"That's my girl," he says, and he looks so fucking _proud_. Like she has a _choice_ in the matter.

He goes back to fucking her, his pace picking up marginally, and Emma does what's expected of her; she moans when she's supposed to, rubs her foot against the back of his calf, and keeps her eyes on him.

She'd never seen a reason to pretend before, couldn't understand why you wouldn't be completely honest with the person you were with.

Now, she's not always even sure what's a genuine reaction and what's manufactured to keep him happy. Or if it even matters, really.

His thrusts start getting a little more frantic, and right on cue, he's sliding his fingers between them, rubbing at her clit. She's not sure why he does it; maybe he likes the way it feels when she comes around him. It's certainly the least pleasant pleasant thing she's ever experienced. Whatever the reason, he picks up the pace, matching the rhythm of his thrusts with the ever-shrinking circle he's rubbing against her. There's sparks behind her eyelids, and this, she knows, this is real.

She desperately wishes her hands were free, that she could cling to him, some small measure of control, but he likes her so completely at his mercy. That she has to ask him if she wants something. He enjoys toying with her.

Finally, he's pressing into her with earnest, every movement shaking the bed. She's been pushed far enough up on the bed that she can wrap her fingers around the headboard, twisting and rattling the handcuffs. It gives her some leverage, and she uses it to lift her knees and scoot her feet up under her, shifting her hips to give herself a better angle.

He doesn't say anything about the change, just slides his hook under her right leg, pulling it back against her so he can press further into her. She moans, the change sparking at her insides. The skillful combination of his fingers and thrusts has her panting, fingers tightening around the headboard. He's holding her there, so close, fluttering around him. But he's not letting her _come_.

"_Hook_, she groans, and shakes her wrists, rattling the handcuffs to get his attention.

"Hm?" He seems disinterested, pretending he doesn't know exactly what she wants.

"Don't - just, please, okay?" Part of her is curling up in shame, crying and thrashing at her insides, but she _needs_ this. It won't make it okay, but it's better than nothing. And her pride has proven to be utterly useless with him, just making everything harder. He's hitting all the right places inside of her; she knows that's all part of his _plan_, because he likes to see her like this, unravelling under him.

"Please _what_?" he teases her, dropping his head to kiss along her jaw.

"Please, you fucking bastard, let me come, or I swear to god, when I kill you, I'll make it _hurt_," she hisses, proud of herself for avoiding sounding _needy_.

He chuckles, his earlier mood apparently forgotten, and nips at her skin once before pulling back. "I love it when you get threatening."

She opens her mouth to retort, but what comes out instead is a low, drawn out _fuck_ as he thumbs at her clit in earnest and turns his mouth back to the curve of her breast, lips trailing dangerously close to where the pain of the clamp has faded to a dull throbbing.

And just like that, the wave that's been threatening her is right there, crashing down. She lets out a wordless cry, louder than she might ordinarily be, but its not like there's anyone to hear her being brutally fucked by Captain Hook; if there was, they would have been at her door a long time ago. She instinctively tries to wriggle away from him as she comes down, riding out the aftershocks, but his fingers dig into her hip resolutely to hold her in place.

Any pretense of slow fucking is out the window; her release seems to have driven him past the point of trying to make it last, something Emma is grateful for, even as his thrusts jar her already-aching body painfully.

He thrusts into her a handful of times before he freezes up, his hand crushing against her painfully. He moans against the side of her neck and then suddenly goes limp, his full weight collapsing on her.

The room is eerily silent without the sounds of flesh meeting, save for his pants and her slowing heartbeat against her chest. It's uncomfortable and awkward and Emma desperately wishes for the use of her hands to shove him off, but she can't, so she settles for wriggling in an attempt to catch his attention. Finally he pushes off with his arm, rolling off of her and onto his back next to her, and she scoots up the bed, bringing her legs together under her as far away as she can realistically get from him with her hands still chained to the bed.

He sighs disappointedly, like he actually expected her to want to _cuddle_ or some shit, and waves his hand absently, the nipple clamps vanishing from her skin in a haze of magic. She breathes a sigh of relief; although the rush of blood is less than comfortable it's better than the _pain_. Another awkward minute drags by, and she tries to school her face into something resembling politeness, but she's pretty sure she misses that mark by a wide margin, landing somewhere in fucked-out-and-miserable land.

"Are you planning on uncuffing me?"

He doesn't even look at her, the _bastard_, just tilts his head and blinks up at the ceiling. "No."

"Jesus, Hook, are you _kidding_ me?" She realizes after she says it that the bite in her words is probably not helping her case any, but she's tired and she's aching and she's one hundred percent done with him right now. Judging from the way his gaze darkens when he turns on her, he didn't miss it either.

"Careful, _love_. I could just _leave_ you there." He's flipped over now, and he's crawling back up the bed towards her and she involuntarily curls further away, the cold press of her headboard biting into her back. "Naked and shivering. Would you like _that_?"

He stops just inches away from her, staring her down.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" She intends for it to come out more caustic, but in the end, it's more of a whimper. He quirks an eyebrow at her.

"I'm a terrible, terrible villain, darling." He leans in further, ghosting his lips across hers.

"You didn't _used_ to be," she insists, refusing to pull away, resolutely holding onto that tiny scrap of knowledge. He scowls, and his hand comes up, yanking on her ankle, dragging it out to his side and tugging her further down the bed, towards him. He's looming, now, chest hovering over her own.

"We've been over this, _Emma_. Stop trying to see something that's not there."

She's about to make a _huge_ mistake, but she opens her mouth anyway, leans toward him as far as she can, as much defiance as she can possibly muster stuffed into one little word. "No."

The word hangs in the air between them as the seconds tick by.

He should have done something by now. A full minute ticks by, and he's just _watching_ her, face inscrutable. Her ankle is still firmly in his grip, but it's like he's forgotten it's even there, his attention so focused on her. She holds her ground, refusing to back down. The worst he could do is _hurt_ her, and there's nothing he can do to her body that's worse than what he's already done.

But he doesn't _do_ anything, and after another long moment passes, he releases her, turning away completely to hop out of the bed.

For a moment, Emma's so shocked she can't think of anything to say. And then she jolts back to reality with the realization that he's shimmying back into his clothes and she's still sitting here naked and fucked-out and tied-up on her bedspread.

She opens her mouth to say something, but he waves a hand at her, and she finds that there's no sound coming out. _Fucker_. She settles for glaring daggers at him as he throws his shirt over his head, carefully avoiding tearing a hole in the sleeve with his hook. He picks up his jacket and vest from the floor, throwing them across the bed before turning back to her, finally.

He lifts a knee to the bed and leans forward, towards her.

"You have two choices, love. You can ask me to get undressed again and crawl under those covers with you and I'll take the cuffs off the headboard and we can go to sleep and you can wake me up as soon as the sun rises and I'll release you, _or_, I can leave you like this, and return whenever I happen to rouse myself." He pointedly reaches out for her leg, dragging his hook across her skin. "Either way, you're not getting out of those cuffs."

It's not _really_ a choice, and they both know it. The last time he'd gotten her to let him stay the night, she'd woken up the absolutely worst way possible, his fingers lazily stroking at her insides, and things had only gone downhill from there. She'd been late, horrifically late, to work, because apparently in the mornings he was utterly insatiable, wanting her in the bed and against the dresser and in the shower, fingers curling against slippery tile as he pressed into her.

At the same time, though, the idea of spending the night curled up alone with nothing but her own traitorous thoughts seems just as bad.

The fact that he knows her well enough to know that she's actually seriously considering the first choice, the fact that he knows the choice is anything but easy for her, is frightening enough.

Even now, _especially now_, he still reads her like she's a fucking picture book. He thinks she'll pick the first, he seems so sure of himself. And in reality, that's the one she wants to pick, as painful as it is. Because that would be so much better than being _alone_ right now. Even _he_ is better than nothing, how fucked up is that? And her shoulders ache and she's tired of feeling exposed to the world; she just wants to close her eyes and pretend that life is happy and wonderful.

She wants him to stay.

Instead, she narrows her eyes at him and says, "Go."

He blinks, surprise evident on his face. That alone makes it worth it, the fact that she can still catch him off guard. His surprise quickly transitions to a glower, and he surges forward, brutally pressing his lips against hers, biting to get inside, ignoring the way his nose smashes against hers.

When he's finished asserting his dominance, like an asshole, he pulls away. It's evident from the look on his face that he's still fuming, but he won't stay. Somehow, in his twisted mind, he's a gentleman, only staying over if she asks him too.

Because nothing quite screams gentleman like fucking a woman who's tied up and very certainly does _not_ want it.

"Sleep well, Emma," he growls before snagging his jacket and vest. He throws them over his arm and turns away, slamming her bedroom door without a second glance.

Suddenly it feels very, very quiet, and very, very dark in her room. And all Emma has for company is her thoughts.

She pulls her feet back under her and wriggles them under the comforter the best she can. Her arms ache and the metal rattles annoyingly every time she moves.

It's going to be a very long night for her.

She's not entirely sure that it was worth it.


End file.
